Living in a home with unbelievers is not necessarily as bad as living in the cupboard under the stairs is for Harry Potter. Unbelievers don’t always treat you with contempt or take advantage of your differences like Potter’s aunt and uncle and cousin do to him. Much depends on your family’s own upbringing. For example my parents were raised in Christian homes; my mother even attended Bob Jones University back in the days when the school was openly hostile to both unbelievers and Blacks. My father was raised Methodist while my mother was Southern Baptist. As I grew up, I got a bit of both. God seems to have pressed His finger on my heart from a young age. I remember being aware of His presence early in life.
Under the stairs I find a safe place to read His Word so I might understand Him better. He talks so clearly in His Word, and so indistinctly in places of worship, in shopping malls, in movie theaters, in people. For me, it’s like the difference between looking at the sun and looking at the shadows the sun forms. The shadows do, but I prefer the direct light.
I take my children to a Christmas eve service. We are almost horrified at the opening song. For me, the Lord confirms again this is not a place of worship as much as a social gathering place for Christians. I do not say it is as bad as being stuck under the stairs in a spiritually dark home, but it is not the same as a true place of worship — for me, anyway. The second song is not much better. Eventually, the music shifts to more traditional hymns reflective of Christ’s birth. But the first two leave a sour taste in the mouth of especially my daughter. I am hurt. For some reason, we are here. But I know not why.
I feel very much like I am under the stairs. At least my Bible is with me.